An Unusually Peaceful Sleep
by Lord Death's Paramour
Summary: Written before "Deathly Hallows" and is now AU. Fluffy one-shot depicting Harry's thoughts on the Horcrux hunt and a certain red-haired Gryffindor who won't quit his thoughts. Includes a heaping of the lovely R/Hr.


Author's Note: The idea just karate chopped its way into my brain one night and refused to leave until I penned it. It was written before _Deathly Hallows _and is now AU.

Disclaimer: Alas, I do not own Harry Potter. (Darn you, J.K. Rowling!) If I did, I would be a ridiculously wealthy Brit, not an eccentric American with concentration issues.

_Either must die at the hand of the other . . . Neither can live while the other survives . . . Either must die . . . Either must die . . . _

Harry Potter awoke with a jolt. His breathing came in ragged gulps and sweat pooled on his brow. He fumbled at his side in futile search for his glasses before noticing that he could see clearly. He had fallen asleep with them on. Again.

He sighed and stretched, getting the feel of consciousness. His nightmare had become increasingly common, an almost nightly routine. And it always ended the same . . .

He sighed again, determined to put it out of his mind, at least until he resumed sleep. He glanced around, taking in his surroundings for the hundredth time upon arrival.

The rickety shack around him trembled under the force of the storm brewing outside. When they had first arrived, Hermione had done what she could do to make the place livable. The small, adjoining room had been filled with necessary appliances, both magical and Muggle. As brilliant as always, she had charmed the appliances to disappear in the event of a spontaneous exit. She had even conjured a comfortable blue sofa and matching chairs so that they could at least be comfortable in this "Hell-hole," in Ron's opinion.

Now Hermione, ever the bookworm, was scrunched up on one end of the sofa, fast asleep, the newest tome worthy of memorization face-down in her lap. Ron, also a victim of Morpheus, was quietly snoring beside her, his long limbs stretched out uncomfortably and hanging off the end. There was a minute gap between their bodies, Harry noticed, as though they drew some comfort from each other, but were afraid to close the barrier.

After a few quiet, eventless hours in which the storm gradually lessened considerably until it finally exhausted its efforts, he rose from the chair in the corner, which had been his bed, and silently made his way to the door. Fresh air and perhaps a cup of tea would be an excellent way to begin what was sure to be yet another disappointing day.

He paused at the door and let his eyes wander back to Ron and Hermione, or "Mione," as Ron had taken to calling her. Looking at them made him realize how close, and yet, far away they were. He had hoped that the events of the past year would be enough to force them to admit their feelings for each other, but no such luck. Their arguments had decreased dramatically, mind you, but no significant progress had been made. Or so he thought.

Shaking his head, he quietly slipped out the rough, wooden door and walked over to the old oak located on the edge of the forest partly surrounding them. It had soon become a favorite early morning haunt of his in the three weeks that the trio had resided in the little shack just outside of Godric's Hollow. A water-proof blanket was quickly conjured and spread. The gnarled tree cast a formidable shadow over the sparse grass in the premature light of early morning. A ghost of what could possibly be considered a smile flirted with the corner of his mouth as he sat down, momentarily content.

Slightly chilled, he conjured a mug of tea and took a gulp. _"Bleck!" _He shuddered as the tea's bitterness engulfed him. _"Always forget . . ." _With a wave of his hand, he quickly conjured four lumps of sugar and dumped them unceremoniously into his cup. _"Who knew the great Harry Potter was such a sugar junkie?" _he thought with a chuckle and cautiously tried another sip. He instantly felt better as the hot, now sweet, amber liquid made its way into his stomach. _"Brilliant invention, tea," _he thought contentedly.

He sat like this, lost in thought, for an hour or so as Eos came and went. One thought led to another, and he soon found himself reliving a particularly amusing row between Ron and Hermione the other day. His memory was really quite fuzzy about whom or what had facilitated such a blazing argument, but then again, he wasn't sure he even wanted to know.

Thinking of his crimson-haired best mate only succeeded in reminding him of the one person he had been trying the most to forget. He knew that trying to forget her was fruitless, but he was also firmly convinced that he would go stark-raving mad if he didn't make the attempt. All the same, thinking of that fiery red hair, those deep chocolate eyes, her perfect lips . . . NO! He point blank refused to let his thoughts head in _that _direction. He sighed and wondered if this torturous predicament he had somehow found himself in would ever get any easier. _"No. It won't." _his conscience told him firmly._ "And you know it good and well, Potter. Not even allowing yourself to think her name . . . Do you honestly think that she can be forgotten that easily?"_

He argued with himself for the better part of a half-hour. And lost. And finally allowed himself to think her name.

Ginny.

His heart clenched painfully as he remembered the last time he had saw her. It had been at Bill and Fleur's wedding. She had looked so beautiful as she walked down the aisle behind Gabrielle. A fire goddess. The golden dress of Fleur's choosing had complimented her scarlet waves and skin to perfection. The crimson curls in question, though partly held with silver clips, had cascaded down her back like a waterfall of flame. It had taken all of the restraint that Harry could summon to remain in his seat. He'd wanted so badly to jump up and repeatedly tell her how much he loved her, to please forgive him for those awful uttered words, and to please take him back. In this temporary state of insanity, he had been prepared to beg.

But he hadn't. He had remained in his seat like a good boy, hopelessly clinging to all the reasons he'd severed all ties between them in the first place. He'd watched her, from the sidelines, wear a mask of false emotion all throughout the evening as she'd danced with every eligible male in attendance. He'd felt his blood boil as their hands had lingered on her arms and hips . . . the bloody gits. He felt the rise of anger now and shuddered, willing the emotion away. He instead allowed himself to remember some of the wonderful days with her down by the lake and take pride in the fact that, at least then, it had been _his _name she'd coupled with a heart-stopping smile after a long, searing kiss. He actually smiled now.

Perhaps hours later (the sun had long since been overhead), he was startled out of his bittersweet reverie by the sounds of eerily pleasant chatter coming from the shack. He rose from his place on the blanket and stretched. Forgetting the fuzzy fabric, he made his way toward the door. Neither Hermione nor Ron were exactly chipper in the mornings and had yet to allow one to pass without some sort of spat. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion and cautiously entered their current abode. And felt his jaw drop.

Ron and Hermione were sitting, calm and tranquil as you please, on opposite ends of the couch. They were talking quite animatedly. And _laughing._

Harry drew his wand.

"Alright, who are you, and what have you done with my best mates?" he said only half joking as he aimed the wand in the space between the two magical beings.

The red-haired boy and the brown-eyed girl looked at each other and laughed (again!).

"Oh come off it, mate. Can't a bloke be cheerful in the morning every now and then?" Ron grinned cheekily.

"Not when the bloke in question is you, Ron." He put the wand back in his robes and shuffled over to his previously vacated armchair. "Really, what is up with you two this morning?"

"Oh, honestly, Harry! You act as though we're horrible in the mornings!" Hermione put in as she picked up the dusty volume on the cushion beside her and randomly opened it. At Harry's pointed look, she just shrugged helplessly and started reading.

"Feel up to a game of chess before breakfast, Ron?" Harry asked his best friend.

"Feel up to getting your arse beat, Harry?" Ron replied with a smirk worthy of Malfoy.

"Oh, you think that, do you?" jibed the green-eyed boy knowing good and well that the odds were definitely in his favor of being the loser of the match. They had played this ruthless game of strategy often to pass the hours away. Each time, Ron had mercilessly slaughtered him. The poor battered kings had made a habit of dueling over who had to represent Harry in these wild battles. He pretended to be offended at this, but secretly found it amusing.

"Oh, I _know_ so, mate."

They then proceeded to locate the chess board. The ebony king lost the fight and had the extreme displeasure of playing for Harry. He uninvitingly offered advice any time he thought he could save Harry from making a foolish move which Harry pointedly ignored.

The results of the match were as predicted, and Harry let the undefeated master gloat a bit before suggesting breakfast. Hermione, reluctantly he noticed, marked her place in the huge tome, put it temporarily aside, and joined them on the floor for sausages, kippers, eggs, and grapefruit, which she made appear with a lazy flick of her wand.

Watching his best friends get along so well without having first spent all their energy having it out at one another was a rather unnerving feeling, and he was reminded of the calm before a storm. He was right.

It all started when Ron (after severe badgering and nagging from Hermione) was collecting all the dirty clothing from the pile in the corner, this being the idea of said person. He was in the process of putting them into the Muggle washer (Hermione and Harry had devoted one rainy afternoon to teaching him how to use it) when all of a sudden he yelled out, "Oi, what is this?"

"What is what, Ronald?" Hermione had answered as she entered the shack. She had been outside securing the wards she herself had constructed upon arrival.

"What is _this_!" he replied and proceeded to hold up a pair of what looked to be lacy, red knickers. Upon closer inspection, the words "Property of the Bulgarian Quidditch Team" blazed across them in fancy gold script.

Hermione instantly turned scarlet, but her face betrayed no anger. Yet.

"It's not what you're thinking, Ron," she said calmly and lunged for the knickers.

Ron, however, obviously did not intend to give up a perfectly good chance for a row. He easily side-stepped Hermione's poorly aimed grab and held the undergarment up in the air.

"How do _you _know what I'm thinking! I'm sure it's _exactly _what I'm thinking! These are from Vicky, aren't they?!" he yelled back. Hermione was now standing on tiptoe, orchestrating a futile attempt to reach the clothing held high above Ron's head. Upon seeing that this was pointless, she snapped, "So what if they are?! They're MY knickers and I certainly do not see why this is any of your business or concern!"

"It _is _my business, too! I'm sure we'd both like to know how you happen to have such an incriminating piece of fabric in your possession, wouldn't we Harry?!"

Harry, previously re-situated in the ever present armchair, helplessly looked back and forth between two of the people he loved most in the world, wishing with all fibers of his being that they would just leave him out of it.

He was saved from replying, however, when Hermione snapped, "As I have continuously made known, Ron, it is NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!" She drew her wand and aimed. "_Accio Knickers!"_

The offending garment flew into her outstretched hand.

"Thank you!" she yelled sarcastically and turned to exit the hut. A second later, she obviously thought better of it, because she turned and retorted calmly, "I _was _going to tell you exactly why I happen to have a pair of Bulgarian Quidditch knickers in my possession. However, after that little display, I believe I'll leave you to imagine the worst. Goodbye, Ronald." She then proceeded to make her exit, but not before pausing to collect the sneeze-inducing tome she insisted upon carting everywhere.

"UGGGGH!" Ron groaned after she'd gone. He paced the room for a few minutes in an obvious attempt to quench his anger. After which he spun around and faced Harry so fast that Harry was almost known as The Boy Who Lived Only To Die Of A Heart Attack.

"Harry…" he began, and the look on his face was so pitiful that Harry almost hugged him. (Except deep masculine cough men don't hug.) "Do you think she loves him? Oh Merlin, do you think she shagged him?" He sank down onto the love seat and buried his face in his hands.

His heart immediately went out to his best mate. Even though it was _far _from what Ron was thinking, he knew how he would feel if there was reason to think that Ginny… no, he definitelywould not go _there_. He reached a decision and prayed that Hermione wouldn't murder him. He knew his other best mate well enough to know that she could make dying very painful.

"Ron… it's not what you're thinking, mate. Your sister gave those to her last Christmas. You know, as a joke. She's never been to Bulgaria. Think about it, mate. When has she had the opportunity to shag him?"

Ron looked up with hopeful-turned-disheartened eyes.

"But if it was just a joke, why does she wear them?"

Not knowing the true answer (but knowing for a fact that the man Hermione fancied was sitting right in front of him, NOT being surly in Bulgaria), and determined not to hesitate again and start another Lavender-like fiasco, he quickly searched for an answer.

"You know our Hermione," he shrugged with a grin a split-second later, "Can't stand to waste anything." He inwardly breathed a sigh of relief when Ron seemed to buy it. He could tell it worked when a relieved grin lit up the red-head's face.

The grin disappeared a minute later before Ron announced that "I reckon I better go apologize before we freeze our arses off. The damn fire's about to go out and I can never remember the bloody spell."

Ron was out the door before Harry could protest that the fire was in fact blazing nicely and that _he _had known the spell for years now. He rolled his eyes and grinned at the thought of his best mates. They were so clueless.

He stretched out in the recliner and closed his eyes. Suddenly remembering what he always seemed to forget, he quickly removed his glasses and gently placed them on the floor beside the chair. He readjusted himself and sank into an unusually peaceful sleep.

* * *

Please hit that lovely "Go" button and make a girl happy! No flames, although constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!


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